Verona Adapted
by sonofon
Summary: In a modern adaptation of Romeo and Juliet, there's a twist: both leads are male. Atobe Keigo is slated to play Romeo, but the studio has yet to find his Juliet—er, Julio. Enter Echizen Ryoma. AU, Royal.
1. Act 1

* * *

A/N: An AU WIP that will be updated when the muse strikes. So please review? Feedback is loved. Oh, and it's Royal.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Prince of Tennis. And no, I don't own Romeo and Juliet.

--

The studio head almost pitied the poor fool who would have to play Atobe Keigo's love interest. The man was an attention whore, if you could forgive the language; he was arrogant, rich, spoiled, narcissistic, and—

"Talented," put in his assistant, who happened to be of the female gender. "And absolutely _gorgeous_."

He had to agree to that, but it was reluctantly, mind you. Atobe was the studio's only big name actor, and as much as he secretly detested the pompous young man, it was all he had. He needed another actor who could share the top billing with Atobe; this would deflate his ego, the director thought.

Another male was preferable. He'd tried to find the female starlets to sign on, but Atobe took advantage of them all, and they left, whining, crying, because they had thought he was their one and only, and this was never the case.

The director might have been stern and said a few choice words to the man, but he had, unfortunately, the influence of the name of Atobe. Besides which, his family had helped fund the studio's very humble beginnings, and this Atobe would never let the man forget this. He also never wasted an opportunity to remind the director just how invaluable he was to the studio—as much as the director hated it, it was the sad truth.

But another actor—a male at that—would take something away. Atobe was decidedly heterosexual, and he wouldn't possibly lay hands on the newcomer. Of course, that newcomer had to be somewhat talented too, because as much as Atobe would hate to see someone shine as much as him, he wouldn't have liked much for that someone dragging himself down as well.

The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet had been revisited countless times in the cinematic world, but that is why there were twists. And in this case, there would no Juliet, and instead, she would be replaced with a Ju_lio_.

Since Atobe had given his go-ahead (a rather rare occurrence too), there was no turning back now. Of the available actors to play Julio, none would be found in this studio. Ever since Shishido Ryou quit a few months back to leave for another studio, the director had lost his number two man. And Atobe absolutely, absolutely _refused_ to work with Gakuto after that disaster a couple of years ago concerning that scene mix-up. So Gakuto, who had become the number two name after Shishido's departure, was out for this.

And Oshitari Yuushi, the recruiting agent, was out on vacation _again_ with his supposed 'true love' for the millionth time. It was a brunette, he'd said before his departure, and he liked brunettes, especially those with long legs. He was sure that she was going to be the one, but the director had heard that one before. Many, many times before, he could even add.

Thus, the director thought, the best and only solution was to find someone new. For he was sure that of all of the people in this world, there _had_ to be someone who could stand Atobe.

* * *

A long, arduous process. The search began with thousands of hopefuls, and the good majority of them were dismissed at the first glance.

"Too wide," the director said. Or else he said, "Too short," or "Too low of a voice," or "Too quiet," or, worst of all, "Too ugly."

He was merciless in his words—which he had to be, of course—and it was not uncommon to see these former hopefuls leave the studio with eyes full of tears. "I've sympathy for them," said the director's assistant, "if not for my job, I might be one of them."

"Quit yakking," returned Atobe, "and go give the old man his drink or something."

She heaved a soft sigh, but there was nothing to be done. If you didn't listen to Atobe, he would be sure to have a hand in having you fired. Besides which, if he _did_ talk to you, it meant that you existed, and there weren't many people who could be accounted for in that category.

Day in and day out, this was what the director spent his time doing. Atobe came once every few hours to check up on the process, even though he claimed he didn't care one bit. Some applicants were lucky enough to perform a few lines in front of him, but if the director was tough, then, well, Atobe was a drill sergeant.

"Shut up," he would say, "why is that voice ending up so high?"

More hopefuls went home in tears. The tissue box count shot up for the month. The director sighed. Atobe sneered.

And they were nowhere near close to finding that next movie star.

* * *

Echizen Ryoma sighed partly because he was tired, but mostly because he did not want to be here. He'd never been one for movies, had never liked watching movies much, so he wondered how Momoshiro used that logic to sign him up for an audition.

"You're a natural at acting!" he provided. "Always scowling and saying 'mada mada dane', you know? It could be a movie catchphrase!"

And then Momoshiro left him there, saying that he didn't want to disturb his acting thoughts—whatever that meant—he was sure that Ryoma would do great, and break a leg! He was signed in by the tired-looking young woman at the front who only said to him: "Get back there and wait for your name."

It seemed easy enough, he thought, as he joined tens of other people in a stuffy waiting room. There were young people like him, there were older people who must have convinced themselves to be late-bloomers to have the guts to come here. There were vain young men who ogled at themselves in a mirror as if they were a girl.

He sighed again. The movie industry was all fake anyway. The best course of action to take was to simply bomb whatever he would be forced to do, and then he could return to the tennis courts to play tennis with Momoshiro. And like _hell_ if Ryoma was going to take it easy on him today. He'd show that big, big git what would happen if he crossed his wrath.

So he was in the midst of imagining himself hitting yet another unreturnable serve when his name was called.

"Echizen Ryoma! Number 243!"

He started up, followed the general direction of where the voice had come from. It was the same girl who'd signed him earlier. She had a weary smile as she said, "Here, dear, this way please."

Looking extremely disheartened, he must have been a strange person to the girl. Everyone else was enthusiastic, cheerfully offering their future lifestyles in the high-scale industry, but here he was: giving off the impression that he was at a funeral.

The man who introduced himself as director took one look at Ryoma and said, "The first fit-looking guy in hundreds. I'm liking you already."

Ryoma was taken aback by this frank confession. He would learn later that people in the business liked to talk like this—it made them feel powerful. "I play tennis," he offered.

"Tennis, huh? Oh good, good. Atobe—the cocky brat that struts around here like it's his own (even if it partly is, but don't tell anyone that)—he plays tennis too. But anyway," he coughed. "Well, what'd ya got?"

"Excuse me?" So far, Ryoma had no idea what he was supposed to do. Smile, act, be yourself!—had been the trash of advice that Momoshiro'd offered.

"I mean," said the director, looking disappointed himself, "act. Do something. Sell yourself, kiddo. And hurry up. I haven't got all day."

"Er," said Ryoma, who still had no idea what to do.

The director sighed impatiently. "Well," he finally said, "just talk. Tell me, what do you like to do?"

"Tennis," Ryoma immediately said, and noticing how bored the director seemed, added, "it's a very enjoyable pastime for me."

"Good job, bright boy," the director said, "now keep going."

Although the jab was mildly annoying, he continued. And somehow, this was how he passed the time, describing every aspect of tennis he could think of. Soon enough, he was no longer thinking about this audition—it was about the mental aspect of that green rectangular court. It was about the battles that were fought there, and there was that question: _How far are you willing to go to win?_

He kept talking, and the director did nothing to stop until finally he said, "Look kid. I think that's enough for today."

"Does this mean I can go home?" he asked.

"In that you can leave now, yes," the director replied, "but I want you to come back. You hear me? My assistant will give you further instructions, but you _will_ come back. No matter what, okay? You got that, right?"

Somehow, Ryoma said, "Okay," and that was it. When he found the girl, she handed him a card with the address to a studio—"Where we actually work," she clarified—and he left. Momoshiro was outside, waiting for him. "How'd you do?" he eagerly asked.

And when Ryoma answered, "Pretty good," he thought that he sounded much happier than when he first entered the audition. It wouldn't be so bad if he got to talk about tennis after all.

* * *

Ryoma did return. Momoshiro had been kicked out at the gate. He'd called out, "Break two legs this time, 'kay?" But when he looked back, Momoshiro was gone.

He continued down, passing by the large sets from previous movies made. There were trailers lazily parked around, hordes of camera crew men shuffling this case of film to its next destination. Overall, it was a very busy atmosphere.

The number of applicants had greatly slimmed down. Ryoma had been one of seventy people chosen to proceed through. As he looked through the reports, he realized that there had been a total of ten thousand people who'd tried out. And he had made it to the next round.

Of course, he didn't bother to kid himself. He didn't even act, he thought, he was just talking, talking about tennis. If he was lucky, he would get kicked out right here, and he wouldn't have to bother about movies ever again.

Yet, he had that determination which carried over from tennis: he didn't like to lose. And as much as he detested the movies, he somehow couldn't bring himself to purposefully fail.

He met the director once again when it came to his turn. "It's harder this time, kid," he said. "We've got everyone lined up there, right on the stage. So do your best, okay?"

Ryoma wondered why the director acted like this towards him. Perhaps if the director had spited him from the very beginning, Ryoma might have had the motivation to mess up intentionally.

There they were—all seventy of them on the stage. Ryoma was number forty-three: he stood between a tall, young boy and a suspicious looking bearded man. He decided to ignore them, it would be better to think less of the others.

(_In tennis, you only think about your side of the court. Don't think about your opponent. Play your game, and everything will work out._)

When the director came out, everyone automatically clapped for him. Apparently, Ryoma learned, he was rather famed in his own right, and to have a prominent director appear here was a dream come true to many.

"First off, congratulations to everyone who's made it so far. This isn't easy, I tell you, and I'm not kidding. It really is," he took a breath and coughed. "So. I'll be testing more your acting abilities today. There'll be a few challenges, you could say. And after each challenge, a couple of people will be eliminated.

"I think we'll be going through a couple, so pace yourselves, you all got that?"

Everyone gave one collected nod.

"Good. I'll have my assistant give out the directions for the first."

The girl called Ayano now took the director's place. "Hello to everyone," she began, then looked down at her clipboard. She fidgeted with removing a sheet of paper out, then said, "So, um, we'll be having everyone come up here—one at a time—and you'll just talk. I'll be interviewing you, so for everyone waiting, please be patient. And, so, first up, Nishikawa Den."

One by one, everyone filed off stage, leaving only Nishikawa Den standing. He stepped up to the microphone rather comfortably, as if he'd been here before, and, as it turned out, he had.

Ryoma, along with the others, took their seats down below. They were in, after all, an auditorium. Spacious and well-built, it held all the requirements to be considered one of the best performance centers in Tokyo. The seats were plush and not at all lumpy or hard. But as he held no interest in the so-called interviews, he drifted to sleep, thinking that he'd wake up when his number was called.

It was number forty-two who woke him up. "Hey, hey," he whispered, "get up there! It's your turn."

He woke up, eyes wide open. He took a look around him—everyone, to be sure, was staring at him. "Oh. Right," he grumbled, and began the walk up the stage.

He had to adjust the microphone height; the man who'd gone previously was very tall. Then he looked down at his audience; they seemed to be numbered in the thousands.

Faces, faces, faces. They all stared at him unabashedly, their faces seemed to glow. The dim lighting of the room did not help the situation.

"Echizen Ryoma?" Ayano called out. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. I'll be starting now. Then, please tell me, Echizen-kun, why have you decided to become an actor?"

And Ryoma froze where he stood, as if he didn't understand what she said. The faces seemed to be glowering at him now; they were daring him to make something up, daring him to say something.

His first thought was to give up. _Just say something, anything!_ But then his mind turned to something else: why not just improvise? It'd show how much of an actor he was, which probably wasn't very much either way, and also, it'd show if he belonged here or not.

Or rather, if he really wanted to be an actor.

(_You've got to go out there on that big, green rectangle and decide. . . Just how far you willing to go?_)


	2. Act 2

* * *

A/N: A note, that Ryoma is currently unaware he is trying out for the part of Julio in a modern version of _Romeo and Juliet_. Review please?

Disclaimer: Don't own _Romeo and Juliet_. As well, a few lines of dialogue that appear here belong to Shakespeare himself, I suppose.

--

The thought of sincerely asking himself whether he wanted to be an actor never crossed Ryoma's mind. The thought was something more like: _quick, something, _anything.

His left hand instinctively reached for the microphone, but doing so resulted in a loud scratchy sound. Everyone in the theater winced. Ayano held the clipboard to her ear and forced a polite smile. "Echizen-kun?" she repeated, "Are you ready?"

Of course he was. He coughed to show just how he was prepared, that he was only taking his time. He took a breath.

And another one.

Ideas came and went. The most reasonable thing to do, he finally decided, was to talk about tennis but to replace the word 'tennis' with 'acting'_._

So it goes. And he ended up sounding a little like this:

"I have always wanted to become a great actor. It is, er, part of my family's. . .tradition, so to speak, so I have always been exposed to it. My father"--it hurt him to bring up that pervert's name, but he couldn't think of anything else, not when he was on the spot--"always had the potential but he turned down a great opportunity to lead a, er, _humble_ life. In turn, I wanted to, er, follow in his steps. . ."

"Echizen Ryoma-kun has an actor for a father?" Ayano whispered to the director, "he never wrote that down on his application form."

"Kid probably doesn't want to be in anybody's shadow. No one would," he replied.

"Ah."

"And, uh," Ryoma continued, wondering if he was losing points for stuttering. He used his right for gesturing, a habit that he'd always had when speaking in public. "I have great determination for, uh, te--_acting_. Acting. Yes. And as a child, I've always dreamed of winning. . ." Quick!--what was the equivalent of Wimbledon for acting?

"Oscar!" he burst out. "To win an Oscar!" Another joyful screech from the microphone followed. Simultaneously, everyone winced. "Oops," said Ryoma. "And, er, that's it."

"Thank you, Echizen-kun, you may sit down now," the assistant quickly said. The spotlight that had been focused on Ryoma was removed. He sighed and walked off the side-steps to return to his seat: burgundy cushions had never felt so comforting.

Number forty-two sneered at him when he sat down, but he wasn't sneering so much an hour later when he saw that he had been dropped from the continuing list of contenders.

"Mada mada dane," Ryoma retorted as he pushed past the glass door for the second challenge. Fifty men continued on.

* * *

The remaining fifty were allowed to break for twenty minutes, after which, the director said, he would be testing each and every one of them in actual acting skills.

Ryoma didn't think of how he had made it--despite stuttering and not really knowing why he was here in the first place, he had somehow expected to be cleared. But the idea of having his acting skills tested did irk him slightly, if only because he didn't know how to act.

Or he could just dropout now, and let that tall funny-faced number forty-two take his place.

He grimaced. Even if he wasn't supposed to be here, he didn't want anyone taking his spot. He had earned it. Or somewhat, at least.

When the break was called off, everyone returned to the auditorium. On the stage, there were enough chairs for each of them. Each seat also had a card placed on it.

The director stood up to explain:

"There remains now only fifty men, each of whom are perfectly capable and have proven to me that you are truly sincere"--here, Ryoma hid a smirk--"but this is where true talent will take root. Please, take a seat."

Everyone did. When the attention had returned to the director, he said, "Each of you have been given a index card, and each of these cards will contain on it a small section of dialogue. It's not necessarily a monologue, but interpret it as you will. As well, everyone has something different, so there won't be any cheating. You will be given fifteen minutes. Memorize, improvise, do whatever you want. And when the time's up, you'll all be doing it one at a time--on stage, with everyone watching. Now go!"

The large space of the auditorium was efficiently used. Most contenders took to a small corner for themselves, muttering, whispering. Still others made makeshift groups and began practicing together.

Ryoma did not know anyone, so he went to the side of the room to look over his lines. As it turned out, each person had been given some lines from _Romeo and Juliet_. He frowned, wondering why it was that particular play. Actors, he decided, had an inexplicable fondness for Shakespeare.

Shrugging, he looked it over, where it read:

_Within the infant rind of this small flower  
Poison hath residence and medicine power.  
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;  
Being tasted, stays all senses with the heart.  
Two such opposed kings encamp them still,  
In man as well as herbs--grace and rude will._

So it went.

Thinking it over, the first few minutes of his time were silent. Basically, he thought, it was saying that the flower held powers of both good and evil--it was at once poison and medicine. He paused. It was the same thing for men, then: there was both good and evil instilled within them.

Still, what was he supposed to do? Was he to memorize and to wave his arms around like a madmen in the hopes that it would be considered acting? Wasn't that what play actors did anyhow? An overhead PA system cheerfully announced that eleven minutes were remaining.

Well. He really was in trouble, and he didn't know how he was supposed to get out of this one. Maybe his only choice was to give up now. Maybe it'd really be best to fold his cards and go home and kick Momoshiro's ass in tennis, like he always did.

_No_.

Hadn't he come this far already? And did he really expect himself--the Prince of Tennis--to give up? It was laughable. It'd bring only humiliation if he backed out now, even if his talent lay in tennis and not acting.

He took another breath, sat down on the ground, and began to rehearse his lines.

* * *

Sometime in those remaining tense eleven minutes, Atobe Keigo had made his entrance and been utterly displeased by the lack of attention showered upon him. It was only that plain-looking girl who saw him and, waving at him, said, "Over here, Atobe-kun."

He pretended not to notice her, and instead sauntered his way over to the contenders. And frowned. Here he was--gracing these proletarians with the gift of his presence, and he was given nothing! They--each and everyone of them--seemed to be concentrating on some card. But how important could that be compared to _his_ arrival?

It made not sense whatsoever to Atobe.

And it was then that he spotted a man--one in particular who lacked the same handsome attributes that had been given to Atobe-- reading his lines, eyes glowing with determination. He seemed to be in early forties, or if he wasn't, he gave the appearance of one.

Atobe was not happy.

The director was going to allow such a--to put it bluntly--ugly man to co-star with him, Atobe Keigo himself? And if he thought that he was going to get away with it, well, he was wrong. Atobe was fuming. He stood up to his full height, glaring down at the unfortunate man.

"Hey, you." An ominous shadow towered over the seated man, who now looked up.

Where he saw the famous idol, Atobe Keigo. He did what any man would have done, he jumped up and bowed. "How do you do, Atobe-san?" he blurted out with his head still directed at the ground.

Atobe gave a semi-satisfied grin. Finally, the ugly hag had taken notice. "Why are you here." It was not a question.

"W-well, why am I here?" the man stuttered. Two aisles over, Ryoma looked over interestingly. "I-I am here. . .because. . .acting. . ."

He obviously was unable to finish his sentence, his respect for the younger man becoming apparent. Ayano, watching the scene, was reminded once again how Atobe was the very definition for star power.

Turning impatiently, Atobe gave not another word. He headed over to the director, and demanded, in a voice that was not bothered to be muted, "Since he seems to be incapable of explaining, I'll ask you. Why is _he_ here?"

"He's a contestant. _That's_ why he's here," the director said, keeping his eyes on his newspaper. "Seven minutes everyone!"

As everyone hastened to turn to their own lines, Atobe kept to the director. "Tell me, you old man," he put his hands on his hips, "why is someone like him here? I thought we'd agreed that the part would require someone to be between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-eight. Which _he_"--pointing at the still bowing man--"obviously doesn't fulfill."

The director now stood up. "What do you expect me to do?" he said, not giving in to Atobe. "He's gotten this far. I can't just send him home. Someone messed up on the necessary requirements section on the advertising then. So what?"

"So what?" Atobe mocked, his eyes further narrowing. "You expect me to pursue a man _twenty years older_ than me? Blasphemy! I refuse!"

The attention had now been centered on the growing feud, with Atobe obviously trying to influence the director, and the director trying very hard to not cave in.

"Tell you what," Atobe continued, "have all the men line up. If I don't like them, they're out. If I like them, they can continue. Besides, it's only right that _I_ get to choose my co-star. I'm the one that has to fall in love him anyhow." He rolled his eyes; several of the men blushed and looked at the ground.

Ryoma stared. Fall in love? What he was talking about, Ryoma did not know; as well, who would want to fall in love with _him_ in the first place?

But another matter now became of sudden importance: that is, the older men becoming more worried of their prospective of making it, and the younger ones trying to fix their hair up, wiping away sweat, anything to make them look nicer.

The verdict was made, and the director, having been defeated once again, sighed.

"Line up, everyone, on the stage," he said in a weary tone. Atobe stood by him, triumphant.

A beauty contest it had evolved into. This put some men more at favor than at others, and the ones lacking in physical beauty were immediately out. Atobe didn't bother to spare them. "You, you, and you," he pointed, and off they left.

He stood up on the stage, pausing to check a contender every now and then: looking at his hair, his skin, his way of dressing. All of this was important to Atobe.

After the first round of elimination, over half the men were gone.

Twenty-three remained, and each of them knew how important everything was from this point on.

A lanky boy near Ryoma was given the boot for having too much of a curve on his nose.

The director covered his eyes with his hand in despair.

Finally, Atobe came to Ryoma. He let his gaze linger on his face for a second too much. Then he turned and continued down the line: the next five men were soon gone.

* * *

And then there were five remaining men, or rather, boys. Each looked to be in his early twenties, which was what Atobe had been apparently looking for. Ryoma stood to the side; again, the idea of how he made it so far never crossed his mind.

"You are the last five standing," the director said in a tired manner, "as the last test, we will be talking to you one at a time, individually. Atobe wishes to talk to you each so he knows who he will be working with. We shall commence."

A nervous-looking man was the first to enter. The four others sat outside the office, back facing away from the inside. None of them bothered to instigate a conversation: nerves had prevented the ability, or, in Ryoma's case, apathy.

He was out a few minutes later, almost tear-ridden: something had happened inside. He turned away, quickly, towards the exit. From inside, the director called out, "Next!"

Now no one dared to go in. Who knew what had happened? What if they ended up like that poor boy who'd just left?

"I'll go," said one, who was trying to put on a front of bravery. It was a good attempt; inwardly, they were all applauding him.

But it wasn't so good ten minutes later when the office escalated in noise: yelling from the director, yelling from Atobe, and yelling from the boy who only wanted to get a movie part. He stormed out just as Atobe slammed the door shut. The remaining three boys outside froze.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that a pleasant-sounding, "Next!" rang out, and the three each looked at the one sitting next to him.

Ryoma looked at the two. Were they all going to be scared or something? As for himself, the seat was getting uncomfortable, so he stood up and muttered, "I'll go."

The office was exquisitely decorated, every object inside seemed to have its purpose. Meticulous, neat, and outrageously expensive. He closed the door after him and sat across from a desk, behind which Atobe and the director were seated.

"Echizen, right?" said the director.

"Yes."

"Okay then, Atobe," the director cocked his head towards the sitting boy. "Talk to him."

With a flamboyant shrug, Atobe threw him a look. He flipped through a report, presumably Ryoma's application form, and began, "So, you're trying out for a movie part, right?"

He hesitated, then said, "I guess."

"Guess?" Atobe demanded. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Um," said Ryoma, "yeah. I meant that."

He rolled his eyes. "Have you had any prior acting experience?"

"No."

"Any acting lessons before?"

"No."

"Drama? Worked in a theater?"

"No. And no."

"You aspire. . ." Atobe skimmed through the paragraphs, "to win awards? Like the Academy Award?"

"Er." Ryoma paused: was he supposed to say yes? "Not as much as Wimbledon."

"_Wimbledon_?" the director said, enraged. Atobe silenced him with an outreached arm.

"Do you have any desire to do this?" he said.

"Maybe no--yes--_yes_." He closed his eyes, and thought. Then he opened them again. "Yes."

Atobe smirked, and asked, "Do you know who I am? Could you handle me?"

"What?" said Ryoma, confused. "And no."

"Can't handle me?"

"Oh, I was referring to the first question. I guess I could," Ryoma managed, "handle you. . .?" Whatever that meant.

Now it was the director holding back Atobe. "Don't know who I am?" he cried. "What type of brat are you?"

"Well," said Ryoma in a calm tone, "I could say that you're pretty arrogant yourself."

"You dare say that to my face?"

"Well, yes. Why not? Come to think of it, you kind of look like a king."

Atobe calmed down. "That's better."

"A Monkey King, to be exact."

"Why--you brat!"

"You're the one whose the Monkey King."

"Brat!"

"Monkey King!"

"STOP!" said the director, holding out his arms in terms of peace. When the two had stopped and placed their attention on the older man, he continued, "Well, that's settled then, right, Atobe?"

"What's settled, you old man? I want this brat out _now_--"

"Not so fast," he cut in, "why, you've found your perfect co-star. I dare say that there's no one else quite like him. Everyone else is absolutely petrified of you. He"--pointing to Ryoma--"is the only one who's stood up to you so far. Wonderful! Perfect!"

"_Co-star_?" Atobe demanded. "This isn't funny, old man. I'll have you--"

"Echizen Ryoma," he interrupted, holding out his hand for Ryoma to shake, "pleased to meet you. I'd like you to take the part for Julio. Will you accept?"

Atobe fumed behind him. Ryoma fidgeted.

"Um," he said, taking an uncertain look at Atobe, before deciding that he'd do it, if only to rub it in even further. And possibly because he actually wanted to act. "Um. Yeah. _Yes_."

"Good!" the director proclaimed, "and there we have it! The two stars of _Romeo and Julio_! Atobe Keigo, and, introducing, Echizen Ryoma! I see it now--we'll sweep the awards!"

"What's he talking about?" Ryoma, now confused, whispered to Atobe. "Isn't it supposed to be _Romeo and Juliet_?"

"You brat," he shot back, "you come through a talent search and you didn't even know what you were trying out for?"

"What?"

"_Romeo and Julio_, a modern adaptation of Shakespeare's play," Atobe said, hands on hips. He pointed at himself, "Romeo"--then pointed at Ryoma--"Julio." He grinned. "Are you going to fall for me now? Better not: complications always suck. The paparazzi's going to swarm you. Oh, you poor, little innocent boy."

And Ryoma felt his mouth gape wide open, so wide that he felt it hit the ground and stay there. And he didn't know what to think, only that they weren't really expecting him to fall in love with a Monkey King, right? Because that was just gross, what type of sick movie was this? _Who_ would want to fall in love with him? _Who_ would pay perfectly good money (he imagined new racquets and grip tape) to see a movie like this?

And then he realized (too late) that all the contestants had been male. That was the reason why! Never had he seen a female taking part in the auditions, there was only that girl who was the assistant or something. Oh--why hadn't he noticed earlier? Why, _why_?

This was all Momoshiro's fault. He'd done it as some big, big prank, and he, Ryoma, had fallen hard for it. But boy, Momoshiro was going to _pay_ for this, he was going to pay for this _dearly_. He had known that this acting business would bring only trouble from day one; this was why he should have acted like a complete imbecile and gotten kicked out the moment he stepped in the studio.

Then he froze, his thoughts turning to another matter. After all, didn't they--in Romeo and Juliet, that is--well, _do_ it, and now, they _really_ didn't expect _him_ to do that, not least with, with. . .

_This could not be real.  
_

Overcome with these thoughts, emotions, Ryoma fell and a darkness welcomed him.


	3. Act 3

* * *

A/N: Feedback is very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: Don't own _Prince of Tennis_.

--

Somehow, Momoshiro was shameless enough to actually return to the studio to wait for Ryoma. He whistled his way in, taking not a care to the uniformed men and women of the company who stared at him and wondered who he was.

"Uh, here for Echizen Ryoma," he asked the girl at the front desk. "He's supposed to be here for some, uh, audition thing." He waved his hand elaborately as if this further proved his point.

"For _Romeo and Julio_, I presume?" the girl said.

"Yeah, that one."

"I was just informed of it by the director himself," she said, "but your friend is currently in the infirmary. I can have someone bring you there momentarily."

"Infirmary?" Momoshiro asked, thoroughly confused. "Why's he there? Don't tell me that wussy fainted. . ."

"As a matter of fact," she replied, "that seems to have been the case. It is nothing serious. He was able to tell the doctor to shut up and let him go before he sued him for invading one's privacy. And then he went to the bathroom."

"So he's okay then," he sighed. Turning to the girl, he added, "Thank you." He began to head inside, until he heard a voice call after him, "Wait! You're going the wrong direction!"

* * *

Ryoma was nursing an ice pack and a somewhat sore ego when Momoshiro finally found the infirmary. He was sitting on one of its many unoccupied beds, facing away from the doorway, but he could see his friend through the reflection of a bedside mirror.

"About time you got here," was all he said.

"I got lost, okay?" Momoshiro huffed. "This place is _huge_. It's like miles and miles long."

"Let's leave now," Ryoma said suddenly, jumping off the bed and throwing the ice pack in the sink.

"Sure," he said.

Together, they managed to weave in and out through the studio until they found the exit, which, as it turned out, was next to the infirmary. Ryoma was already beginning to place the blame on Momoshiro's utter stupidity when he decided to interrupt with a matter of much importance.

"So," he began, "did you get a part or something? You haven't said anything about it."

"What of it?" Ryoma shot back; he stuck his hands in his pockets against the blowing wind. "I got a stupid movie part. So what?"

"What did you get?" Momoshiro asked, excited. "You earned it, didn't you?"

"Sure," Ryoma said. "Anyhow, it's pretty pointless. My part's just a guy who falls in love with the most arrogant monkey king in the world."

"Arrogant monkey king?"

"His name . . . what's his name again?" Ryoma kicked a rock on the ground. "I can't remember."

"Mukahi Gakuto?"

"No."

"Shishido Ryou?"

"No. It -- it started with an . . . an A. I think."

"Oh. Atobe Keigo?" Momoshiro looked exicited. "Echizen, you landed a part opposite Atobe Keigo? How can you turn that down? That's, like, _beyond amazing_."

"That was the name." Ryoma snapped his fingers. "Funny. Monkey King has a nicer ring to it though; Atobe Keigo sounds conceited. Or rather, either way, it sounds conceited."

"You're missing the point, Echizen!" Momoshiro now resorted to shaking Ryoma's shoulders back and forth in a flurry. "This is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

Ryoma stared. "I'd rather play tennis." Then he paused and added, "Why do you know so much about movie stars anyhow?"

Momoshiro looked away and coughed uncomfortably, but he quickly turned back and said, "You don't know who Atobe Keigo is?"

"No," he deadpanned. "Strangely enough, he got pretty mad when I told him that."

"You _told_ him that you didn't know who he was?" Momoshiro looked as if he could faint any second. "And you're still alive?"

"What of it?" Ryoma asked.

"Echizen, Echizen, Echizen. Let me tell you something." He was thinking: be strong, like an uncle. "Atobe Keigo . . . How do I say this in a direct manner to someone so dense? Ah! -- okay. _See_. Atobe Keigo is the type of man that, if I were a woman and I was you, and _I_ wasn't around, I would be in love with him."

If Ryoma stared any further, his eyes might have dropped out. "_What?_"

"Uh," he hastily said, "ignore that. But the point is this: you will not back out of that part. I won't let you do that. Think: I'll be such a horrible friend if I let you pass up something like this. Years from now, we'll be growing old in our rocking chairs together, and you'll say to me, 'Damn! I wish you'd have encouraged me to go for that part with Atobe Keigo! I could've been a contender. I could've been a star!'"

Ryoma decided that Momoshiro had gone insane, and he would be doing a good deed if he called up the asylum this instant and asked about a free space.

"No," he simply said. "What makes you think I'd want to . . . go for that part with that monkey king in the first place?" He mustered up as disgusted a face as he could.

"Who wouldn't?" Momoshiro said, and began to whistle and walk away. Then he said, "Man, I'm starving! Let's go get some burgers or something."

And Ryoma had no choice but to follow him, but even as they eat greasy burgers and drank thousand-calorie sodas, even as he was dropped off at his house, Ryoma couldn't help but think, and wonder, what exactly he was supposed to be doing.

He lay on his bed, thinking of tennis, of acting, of crazy people. At eleven o' clock, he turned over, still restless. The curtains hadn't yet been drawn; he could still see the glorious moon and her associates, the stars. Together, they graced the sky like an open stage, as if they were actors for the world to see, free of charge. Together, they danced, they sang, they laughed, they cried.

He blinked. That wasn't true at all. The stars and the moon were up in space, and they didn't act; they were lifeless, they had no soul.

It was approaching midnight when he heaved and sat up, finally beginning to the effects of a day that he did not particularly want to remember. He trudged over to his backpack, unzipped it, and searched for something. He finally found it: a rough draft of the script the director had provided him with.

"There'll be plenty of changes and revisions on the set," he had said, "but the bulk of it should be the same. Hopefully."

He thumbed through it for a few seconds, sat back down on his bed, and began to read.

* * *

His father looked oddly at him the next morning. "Yo," he said, "brat. I see you're in the paper this morning."

"Yeah?" Ryoma said, eating his own breakfast and trying not to pay any attention to the lecher in front of him.

"It says you've landed a part in some movie." Now his father stood up and moved in front of Ryoma. He set one hand on the table and gave his son one long look. He read, "'. . . after a month-long talent search, the elusive part for Julio of _Romeo and Julio_ has been found. Echizen Ryoma is reportedly signed to the role.'" Now he set his copy of the newspaper down and said, in an entirely serious voice, "Brat, who'd you do to get this part?"

"I didn't," Ryoma replied, still eating his own breakfast and trying not to pay any attention to the lecher who was now standing _way_ to close to him, "_do_ anyone. I went to an audition. I happened to land a part." He stood up and did not look away from his father.

He looked shocked. "Since when were you an actor, brat?"

"Starting now, I suppose," Ryoma said, gathering up his dishes and turning towards the sink. "What of it?"

His father gave him an amused look, still unsure of what to make of it. "My son, the movie star. He's not only a star tennis player -- he's moving into Hollywood too! Oh, I can see it already. He'll buy me a huge house in West L.A., and I can get all the lovely young starlets there. Blond or brunette, it won't matter." He nodded and grinned to himself. "Oh yes, I can see it now. Being an actor's better than it sounds. Hey, brat! When you get rich and all, don't forget about your old man, right?"

But Ryoma had already returned to his room. His mother now entered the kitchen and said, "Were you saying something, dear? I thought I could hear your loud voice this fine morning."

"It was nothing, Mother," he replied. "Nothing at all."

Momoshiro was waiting for him outside. "Late," was his comment, and Ryoma wordlessly got on the back of his bike as they sped off for school.

Fifteen minutes into the ride, the conversation turned back to the movie part. "How're you going to handle it?" Momoshiro asked. "I mean, juggling school, tennis, and acting sounds pretty tough."

"Eh," said Ryoma. "I'll manage."

"But this means you really are doing it, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes: you have that determination again. You know what you want to do. And when you succeed, you won't forget about one Momoshiro Takeshi, right?" He laughed.

"Dream on," said Ryoma.

They came into the school twenty minutes before the first bell. After Momoshiro locked the chain to his bike, they headed up the stairs for the first morning class. "When do you begin shooting?" he asked his friend before they split ways in the halls.

"Next weekend, I think," he answered. "I guess I'll have to look over the script some more."

"Have you memorized anything yet?"

"Some," Ryoma said. "The lines are almost taken word for word from the actual play anyway."

"You actually remember how _Romeo and Juliet_ went?" Momoshiro was impressed.

"Hardly, but it's enough."

"You'll have to say it to me sometime. At lunch maybe. I can be your first audience. I can be your first fan."

"Mada mada dane," Ryoma shook his head, as the bell rang, and they hurried towards their respective classrooms.

* * *

Ryoma found himself trapped in a labyrinth of office cubicles and restrooms for a good twenty minutes before he managed his way to the correct studio. Today was the first day of shooting; he wasn't sure what to expect.

There wasn't much. Just a few chairs that were laid out, and a blank screen that took up most of the wall at the far-end of the studio. It seemed eerily empty: he had imagined a cornucopia of costumes, of workers, of actors.

"Not on the first day," the director said. "Everyone's too lazy. Those assholes. This is like one of those 'Get to Know Your Co-stars' days. Development and pre-production took us five years to get to this point. We deserve a day of rest, those lazy bums."

"God," groaned Atobe, who, upon entering, immediately strutted to his own custom-made chair. "We are not going through this again. We already know each other. Why keep us here?"

"I said so, Atobe, so you're going to listen to me."

Atobe looked surprised at the director's standing up for himself. "Well, well, well, this is a first."

The director promptly ignored him. "And if you're so sure of knowing everyone, Atobe, then who's that?" He pointed to one rather unfortunate fellow.

"Uh," he eloquently said, "okay, whatever. You start then, why don't you?"

So the man stood up, took a bow, and said, "I am the director, in case you're too dimwitted to notice, or too dumb to know who you're working for. Any problems with me, and I'll send you to Sanada. And he's the no-nonsense type of producer, I'll tell you." He sat back down and glared at the actor.

"Atobe Keigo." He rose one hand lazily to acknowledge the presence of everyone else. He found the whole introduction absurd, especially since everyone knew who he was in the first place.

Gradually, everyone muttered their name, some more loudly than others. When it came to Ryoma's turn, he did the same. When everyone had introduced themselves, the chairs were put away, and everyone began to leave.

"That's it?" Ryoma said, thinking that this was definitely a waste of time, and he wouldn't be bothered to coming to these so-called shootings when he could be doing something more productive, like playing tennis.

"Atobe's a lazy ass," the director said to him in a noticeably low whisper. He took up his own chair to bring it to the pile where all the other chairs were.

"I was born with blessed ears, Mr. Directer," came his voice on the other side of the studio, "I can hear whatever scandal you're spreading about me."

"Damn!" he whispered. "Look kid," he said to Ryoma, "I actually feel kind of sorry for you 'cause you're the one that's gonna have to do the dirty with him. But I'll offer you my friendship: we can look out for each other. I help you, you help me, that sort of thing. Mano a Mano, y'know?"

Ryoma frowned. For some reason, everyone always seemed to like to point out that inevitable climax he would have to do. Maybe it was because he was an amateur. Maybe because it was Atobe. He decided not to think about it. "What makes you think I would want your help?" he finally said.

"You're new, kid," he said, "I can tell. You need a friend, and I've been in the business for long enough to know who's new and who's not. Who belongs here, and who should be working the counter at the local liquor store."

"And I don't belong, that's what you're saying." Ryoma couldn't help but feel annoyed.

"I'm saying that you haven't been corrupted yet," he replied. "Atobe corrupts people. Shishido Ryou was my favorite actor to work with -- and he drove him away to the rival studio. Why? Only Atobe knows. Even though he denies everything, I know that for sure he had something to do with it."

"I don't quite understand why you're telling me this."

"You can stand up to him. Nobody ever does, not to Atobe. Everyone's too goddamned scared of him," he said, shifting around. "But you're not. When I saw you arguing with him the other day . . . that's when I knew I'd found Julio."

"I thought they were supposed to be in love, not constantly fighting," he said.

Helooked at him thoughtfully. "Sexual tension," he said, "always does lead up to a meaningful climax. But let's not think of that, shall we?" He swung an arm around Ryoma's shoulder, not unlike what Momoshiro always had a bad habit of doing. Ryoma automatically cringed, but the director did not seem to notice.

"Anyway, say that you'll be my friend, and I'll make sure things go smoothly for you through Sanada. He's actually a pretty fair guy, just strict. Anyway, the media, the gossip columns, the people of Japan, they all want to know who the hell Echizen Ryoma is. I can make sure that you're safe."

"Safe?"

And the man only shook his head. "See? They'll take complete advantage of you. Not just Atobe, and that's already bad enough. You need friendship, and I can give you that." He held out his hand for Ryoma to shake, which he reluctantly did. His hand was firm and the director gave him a curt nod.

"Welcome aboard," was all he said.


	4. Act 4

* * *

A/N: Feedback is very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: Don't own _Prince of Tennis_.

--

**CASTING OF _ROMEO AND JULIO _FINALLY COMPLETE**  
_Atobe Keigo looks forward to shooting "very much"  
_TOKYO, Japan—Lights, camera, action! After five years spent in development, the tension is finally over, and the cast and crew of an new, adapted version of William Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ can finally begin working. Yes, you've read that right: the highly-anticipated _Romeo and Julio_ film will probably be released sometime towards the end of next year.

Atobe Keigo, who has been cast as the star-crossed lover Romeo, has said that he is happy to be working on such a film, and that he hopes that it will be well-received by both the public and the fans of the original play. And what of his mysterious co-star? Echizen Ryoma, an eighteen-year-old college student, was discovered in a long talent search that had the famed Director scratching his head in frustration before finding the cerulean-haired young man.

"I knew I had found Julio when I first saw him," said the director, when reached by phone, "because he has that quality—I'm not too sure how to say it—to him. Few people have that ability, but you know when you have it: and you don't want to lose someone like that. He has great potential to be a star."

Echizen Ryoma, however, refused to speak to the press about his good fortune, and only spat out a, "Mada mada dane," to this dedicated reporter. A formal press conference will be held in two weeks, and the film is set to premiere at the Tokyo International Film Festival, and will be widely released before the end of the year.

Members of the older generation (including this reporter) will probably remember the last attempt for a Shakespearean play to be adapted to the Japanese screen. The late Kurosawa Akira found triumph in the form of 1985's _Ran_, which was based on _King Lear_. It was both a critical and commercial success, and this film adaptation intends to follow the same mold.

"Of course, we've made several changes to it so that it follows a more Japanese setting, much like _Ran_," said Kirihara Akaya, the film's screenwriter, "so Romeo is not quite Romeo, though we intend to stay as faithful as we can to the original play. But, really, I mean, I don't want to reveal too much, or [film producer] Sanada'll have my hide—he doesn't like the media knowing too much, you know. And, anyway, this is Echizen Ryoma's first production of any sort: his character will be written to reflect this detail, just as his Julio is experiencing true love for the first time—or something phony like that. But I'm really glad that it's not me. I hear kissing Atobe is like kissing Hitler."

So in the end, this latest—and sure to be dazzling spectacle with renowned designer Mizuki Hagime heading the costume department—production is still shrouded in mystery, and Japan will have to wait until its release date to find out more. Leading star Atobe Keigo already has legions of fans in a frenzy through word on the Internet. Wardrobe testing had a few of its stills leaked online, which have thousands of female fans in a tizzy . . .

* * *

Atobe Keigo was storming through the production lots, something that any innocent bystander might have noticed for a number of reasons, the least of which was that he was _walking_, which required two legs, which meant physical exertion on his part.

Ever since he became a headlining star, he'd demanded for private transport from lot to lot, even if the distance was hardly anything, because he was a star and he wanted everyone to know it. (They did.)

For him to withhold from his privilege meant that the offense done to him was serious enough for him to forget about the limousines on stand-by for him. Bystanders said prayers and did a quick rosary for whoever would have to face him.

Arriving at the publicity department, he barked at the secretary. "I want to see Tachibana, and I want to see him _now_."

Tachibana An immediately recognized the look on his face. Though not one to usually bow to demands from the major stars, she had a female's intuition that took note of her current sensitive situation, and something told her that this was no ordinary the-idol-is-acting-like-a-child-again situation. She quickly placed a call to her brother's office.

"You can go in," she said, and he did so without another word to her. She decided that he really was upset.

Tachibana was sitting behind his desk, and he was talking on the phone. Seeing Atobe, he motioned for him to sit down, but Atobe, angered, refused to do so and said, "I'm going to talk to you, so you'd better stop talking to whoever's on the other end."

He cupped the phone with his hand, and with a sigh, said, "I'm on the phone with Mizuki who, as you know, is in charge of your wardrobe. We're discussing which textiles and colors would best suit you for the publicity posters and in front of the camera. After all, it_ is_ period drama, and we're going have the dressing experts working on you soon enough." He knew that Atobe always liked having people talk about him—good or bad, since attention is always attention.

"Forget that. I'm talking to you now. Call him later."

With another sigh, Tachibana uncupped the phone: "Yes, it is him. Yes, I will call you back. Bye." Turning back to Atobe, he said, "Well?"

Atobe was not going to be subtle. "Why the fuck is Shishido Ryou in this picture? I thought I made sure his unwanted face was thrown off the lot a long time ago."

"You should be discussing this with your producer," Tachibana said, calmly, "rather than your publicity agent."

"I found this out only this morning," he barked back. "One of the secretaries spilled the secret to me, and I must say that I'm rather outraged. Outraged that someone should have been planning this behind my back, and outraged that _you_ actually let them do it. Is it not specifically mentioned in my contract that Shishido Ryou is not to be placed within a hundred meter's radius around me? Need I remind you of last year's debacle?"

He got the reaction he wanted to see. Tachibana's face tightened up.

"They found a loophole, one that I was unable to combat back with. You know how they are, rushing in the courtrooms with their lawyers and preposterous claims." He sighed. "All I can say is that the director didn't like any of the studio's character actors, and he insisted specially on Shishido for one of the supporting roles. Yes, _supporting_, so you don't have to worry about the billing order. Well, Sanada wants this picture to be a moneymaker—and, well, let's just say that he's invested especially on this picture— so we went over to International and bargained for him, just for this. He got him on the condition that he pay him twice his salary and expect him to work for no more than three months."

"The bastard."

"Atobe, you and Shishido will be working on this picture together," he said, choosing his words carefully. "The public loves this pairing, and you're going to not let anything in the past jeopardize this. _Nothing_. Besides, he's Benvolio, Romeo's cousin, close friend, and confidant. You must let nothing show. This is a time when professionalism is advised. You two are a team, and teammates support each other. There is no 'i' in 'team.'"

Atobe seethed. "But there's 'me'."

Tachibana ignored the retort. "They've got it covered on this one, and it has nothing to do with me, because I tried to get it your way," Tachibana insisted, "so I'd advise you to grit your teeth and pull through. Don't let them bother you. Don't do anything that might cause a scandal. "

"Funny how you say this to me _after_ the deal's been sealed."

"What does it matter? You image is very helpful for the publicity. You may not believe it, but there are thousands of people out there who like the Atobe and Shishido pairing, and what the public wants, Sanada gives. It's a very wise policy."

Still furious, Atobe left the department.

Tachibana watched him go and placed a call to Yukimura.

* * *

Wardrobe testing was a long and hazardous process. The clothes were ill-fitting and there were a great deal of costumes that needed to be tried on and re-fitted. Hair styles needed to be determined and paired with the correct color tones and designs.

It was dreadfully boring, and Ryoma fidgeted constantly. "This is itchy," he told Mizuki, who had taken it upon himself to take in this young boy under his wing when, in reality, all Ryoma wanted was to get out of there. Mizuki and his flamboyance annoyed him; and Mizuki was not getting the point.

"It's a costume," Mizuki unhelpfully told him. "They're always like that. Just smile and get on with it."

"I don't want to wear this."

"Then, Good Heavens, why did you ever audition for this part in the first place, you ungrateful brat?" And Mizuki sent him off to an apprentice designer who would create clothes for him.

Hair-styling proved to be a similar experience for him; that is, frustrating, unending, and tortuous. "My hair is fine the way it is," Ryoma bluntly said.

"This is a period drama," Oishi tried to explain to him. "Why, no one has spiky hair back then, Echizen-kun. Need I explain to you the dressing styles of the period? I don't think anyone had cerulean colored hair back then either. I'm sorry; I rather like your hair, too. We may have to take alternative routes."

"You mean I have to dye it?"

"A wig will be good enough," he said. "We can try on a couple before we send you off to Fuji."

"Fuji?"

"Head of the photography unit. You'll like him very much, I'm sure."

The photography studio was small and cold due to the air-conditioning. When Ryoma was brought here, he was under the impression that taking photos were a matter of 'one, two, three smile, okay, get out of here' routine, and was very disappointed when he realized there was a line there. For he was not the only actor of the movie—though, up until that point, he had never thought otherwise—and the motley group of actors, young and old, surprised him.

Each wore a distinctive costume. Each wore a different hairdo. Each had been given make-up and voicing lessons. The only thing that brought them together was the singular love of acting, something Ryoma did not quite possess. In a way, he had to admit that their passion for acting was similar to his passion for tennis. He wondered how he was supposed to be a star when, really, he did not want it at all.

What was he supposed to do? Here he was, on the verge of being thrust out into the open stage, and he knew no one. And he knew nothing of acting, he knew nothing of its mechanisms and methods. Knew nothing of its harshness and its difficulties. All he knew was that he had been spotted by an old director who had liked him. It seemed unfair that the director had chosen him when he had never wanted, never desired this at all.

Why was he here again? He couldn't compete with any of them—not in acting, poise, or looks. He was an amateur, and the revelation of the thought suddenly depressed him. But it was a short-lived feeling.

"You!" came a soft voice. "You must be Echizen Ryoma." A fair-skinned young man reached for him and brought him to the front of the line. "Fuji Syuusuke, at your service. I heard from Mizuki earlier. He wants you photographed at this instant so you can be sent back for any more changes." He smiled. "Nervous?"

Ryoma adamantly shook his head.

"Oh, good. You don't know how it is these days. People are so _scared_. They get stage fright in front of the camera and they can't do anything. They're wonderful off camera, but then you have ten sets of lens directed at them and they just _freeze_. I hope you're not like that."

Ryoma vigorously shook his head.

"Good. That's somewhat reassuring. That's how people become stars. Hopefully, you'll be one of them, Echizen Ryoma. Say, can I call you Ryoma-chan?"

It brought Ryoma to his senses, and then, he decided that he was glad to be here. He was glad that he wasn't one of _those_ people. He was different. He was above them; he was going to pull through whether he liked it or not, because a challenge was a challenge, and that was how things were going to be.

"_No_," he said, with a definite—and soon to be signature—glare, and he was on his way.

* * *

Kirihara Akaya lounged in his office with his feet on the desk, feeling completely drained of energy. He found a sudden desire to eat American hamburgers, but his secretary informed him of a new revision required in the script.

"So I can't eat?" he said.

"Sanada wants it before noon," she had replied, and that had been the end of it.

His stomach growled once again. It was at moments like this that he disliked Sanada, who had to be so much in control. He enjoyed presiding over big projects like this, and he took pleasure in ordering others around, though he damn well made sure that no one saw it. Maybe Yukimura did, but then again, Yukimura liked him an awful lot.

His typewriter looked oddly menacing at this point. His fingers had found no inspiration, though the assignment given to him by Sanada had only required technical changes, none so to the actual story; apparently, it was decided that the setting was going to be changed from period drama to high school comedy. Kirihara mumbled under his breath about the dictatorial Sanada and wished for a few sandwiches to materialize by his desk.

It did not, and Kirihara swung his head up towards the clock. The minute hand had increased by a minute since the last time he'd checked.

Sanada was a real dictator, he thought, and in his mind, reeled off the number of producers who had been total control freaks. He decided that Sanada would have fit well in the old Hollywood system where everything was studio-controlled. The studio controlled the actor, commanded his roles, his salaries, his personality, everything. Sanada would have liked it a lot, and, not to mention, he could not help but think, Sanada would have had access to pretty much anyone he would have liked to have.

He wondered if Sanada was even interested in that, and discarded the thought before it scarred him too much.

Verily, the clock struck twelve-thirty, bringing Kirihara out of his thoughts. He jumped out of his seat and made for the door. He was glad that it was lunch, conveniently forgetting the fact that he had not done any of the work given to him for the day. The idea was: he could always do it during the afternoon, right?

He also missed the latest memo from his secretary telling him that all changes Sanada had wanted earlier was now void; it would have made his life much easier.

* * *

Oshitari Yuushi dialed a number and waited for someone to pick up. After three rings, someone did.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for one Echizen Ryoma."

"You're talking to him."

"Good. I'm calling to let you know that from today onwards, I'm going to be your agent. Specially assigned to you from Sanada, who wants everything to run as smoothly as things can be, just because he can."

"I never asked for an agent."

"No one cares what you want. You think I was pleased to be called back from my vacation just to oversee some young nobody? But there are some things an agent can control and other things he cannot. This is one of the latter situations. Anyway, I'm your agent and there's nothing you can do about it. But let me bring you up-to-date on some of the things an agent does: I'm in charge of you.

"I represent you. I fight for your rights from the studio bosses, who in this case turns out to be Yukimura. Sanada's nothing compared to him. Yukimura's some sort of Boy Wonder, you got that? The Son of God, some people say. I mean, not too many people get to be executive producer of a big-shot studio like this before the age of thirty-five. Maybe he isn't even thirty yet. Who knows? There was an old Hollywood producer—same thing, the biggest exec out there before he's thirty-five, and what happens to him? He dies of pneumonia when he's thirty-seven.

"The point is this: I negotiate for you. I let you in on the minds of the greatest men in this business. I tell you what to do, and you go do it. If this happens, we'll be best friends. But I pull out for you and you don't deliver . . . well, then let's not say anything more on that. When the going is good, I'll be happy. When the going is bad, I'll ignore your phone calls and refuse to let you date the starlets. Capisce?"

What was there for Ryoma to say but yes? "Sure," he managed.

"Good kid. I knew you were. See, I know the people in this town. I know Atobe and I know Shishido and you don't get any bigger than that. I know the big bosses on the opposite ends of town. I know the directors, the producers, the writers, the cameramen, the actors, the actresses, the little people, the—"

"I get it. So you know a lot of people. Big deal."

Oshitari leaned in on the desk he was sitting at; he decided that he liked the new kid. He drawled, "You've nerve, haven't you? I'm not talking about any regular denizen or dame plucked right off the streets. I'm talking about the biggest names in the business. The people who could banish you from the country and not get reprimanded for it. That's power right there."

"Is that all?" Oshitari detected a sense of boredom coming from the other end of the telephone line.

"Hardly. What are you doing right now, Echizen?"

Holding his tennis bag in his left hand, Ryoma tightened his grip. "What's it to you?"

"I'm your agent. I'm supposed to know everything about you. What you do, what you eat, where you sleep, who you sleep wi—"

"I'm going to play tennis."

Oshitari took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "No tennis."

"What?"

"You heard me. No tennis. Not today. Not this week. Hell, maybe not for a month. No, you can't play tennis—ping pong, maybe, but tennis? No."

It was as if the ground beneath him had suddenly disappeared and he had toppled down a skyscraper. "What?" he said.

"Uh-huh. No tennis. Kid, you're in a historical drama. Get that? People were fair-skinned back then. You go to the set with a slight tan, and the director is going to _kill_ you. He's going to flip, and guess who gets in trouble? Me, got that? And I'm not going into the hot seat because of you."

"That doesn't mean I can't play tennis. I just won't get tanned."

"No guarantee to that. Best be on the safe side. So, kid, no tennis, you hear?"

"But I don't tan in the first place."

"That's even worse. What if you turn pick or red and scald from sunburns? No, the risk is too much. You'd better stay in the house. Read a little—memorize the script, okay? You're coming by the set on Monday, aren't you?"

A very dejected, "I suppose so," eventually emerged from other end.

"Good. That's real good. So do I have your word? No tennis until the word is okay, okay?"

A long sigh; resignation: Oshitari sensed it. "Yeah."

"You're a good kid, Echizen. I'll let Atobe know," and like that, Oshitari was gone.


	5. Act 5

* * *

A/N: A question for readers that would really help me: do you find the pace of this story on the slower side and think it should be sped up or do you find it adequate? Because I do realize that this is the fifth chapter and Atobe and Ryoma haven't really interacted yet.

--

Momoshiro called five times before Ryoma finally picked up.

"Why aren't you here at the tennis courts?" Momoshiro's voice was demanding and hurt. "I've been waiting for thirty minutes. Can you imagine that? I've been standing next to an _empty_ tennis court for the past thirty minutes and I haven't even started _playing_ yet, what's wrong with—"

"I can't play tennis," and he uneasily added, "my agent says so."

"You have an agent? That's like, amazing, since when? Why didn't you tell me? They maybe could have signed me up, too!"

"_Acting_ agent, not sports agent." Ryoma waited for the silence that would come from the other end of the phone.

"_What_? Echizen, what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. I've just been forbidden to go near a tennis court for the next month or so."

"The next _month_?" Momoshiro counted on his fingers. "That's like, _thirty-one_ days. Or _more_. Isn't this a violation of your rights?"

"You think I don't know that?"

"Why the hell not?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"And you're just going to let him tell what to do?"

"Of course not," insisted Ryoma.

"Then why aren't you here, God dammit, you little—"

"There's a guy outside my apartment."

Ryoma heard Momoshiro suck in his breath. "What the—"

"Yeah. There's a guy outside my apartment. He looks like some cross between a bouncer and a thug. Or maybe he's both. If I squint a little, I might be able to read what his tattoos say."

"Tattoos," repeated Momoshiro.

"Pretty much, yeah. Tattoos."

"How do you know he's for you?"

"I tried going outside a couple of times, but he was always there and—look, I don't want to break an arm. What if I have to get surgery and a cast? And then it's no tennis for three _months._" It did not occur to him at the time that breaking his arm might also mean a release from the studio; his health reserved solely for tennis was clearly more important.

"Go around the back," he suggested. "Climb out the window or something. Just _get_ yourself over here."

"I did. He was waiting for me. And then he cracked his knuckles."

Momoshiro gulped. "Did he have a lot of tattoos?"

"I lost track after twenty. And some are hidden by others."

"_Twenty_? Echizen, why are they doing this?"

"Probably to make a point. I'll wait until nine and see if he's here then. If he isn't, I'll meet you at the University's indoor court."

"What the hell, _what_ the hell," he said.

Four hours, Ryoma called Momoshiro. "Forget it. The guy's still there."

"Does he ever sleep?"

"At some point, maybe. He's brought in ten more people now. They're currently beating up some poor slob. Oh, look at that. His teeth are gone."

"Well, fuck."

Ryoma vehemently agreed with him. And somewhere in a nightclub with a brunette on his lap, Oshitari was laughing.

* * *

A rumor floated into the stills department, through to the cinematography unit, past the photography studio, and onto the writers' floor: Yukimura had been admitted into the hospital once again. The reason had yet to be released, but since Yukimura's constant hospital visits and checkups were almost a routine by now, most of the employees under his control were not particularly worried.

"I bet he's getting surgery again," Kirihara Akaya sighed to another writer, Shiraishi; "and I bet he's going to stay ill for another two months, and I bet that this means Sanada's going to take over. Again. I might as well take a sick leave. My life is _over_."

"I don't think Sanada is quite as bad you make him seem," Shiraishi said.

Kirihara stared at him until Shiraishi began to feel otherwise. "You don't know him," he groaned. "You don't know how dictatorial he gets when he's annoyed. And you don't know how anal he is because he wants everything, and he wants everything _his_ way. And everything has to be one hundred percent perfect because ninety-nine percent isn't good enough. I should know. I went to school with him. And now that I _work_ for him, it's even worse. He is _evil_."

"That would imply he isn't much older than you," Shiraishi logically pointed out. "You know, your going to school with him and all."

"Your point being?"

"He's already the executive producer, second only to Yukimura, his Holiness. It's quite an achievement." He did not add, "While you're only a screenwriter."

Kirihara pouted just the same. "It's 'cause he _knows_ Yukimura. If I knew Yukimura, I'd be an executive producer, too. Only, I don't even want to be a producer in the first place."

"Then what do you want to be? How did you ever end up here?"

"I started out as a short story writer," said Kirihara. "Then I got forced into writing the gossip stories because my stories didn't sell even though the critics loved it. I hate the critics sometimes. Ever heard of Spy Magazine?"

"No."

"Well, I was their top reporter, if that means anything. And I got so sick of it that I ended up here. And what am I writing? A script called _Romeo and Julio_." He slapped his forehead. "But after this is over, I'm going to Sanada and I'm going to tell him—to his face—oh, yes, I'm going to—that I'm sick of his treatment of me; he treats me like he treats all the other screenwriters. I'm a _real_ writer. I've published before, and that makes me different from all the struggling ones that just want to get _noticed_. So this isn't fair. It's wrong, it's degrading, it's inhumane, and I'm not about to stoop over just to write mediocre scripts starring talentless idols like Atobe. Or talentless nobodies."

"I hear this Echizen is supposed to have talent. Potential, it's called."

"Anyone can have potential. Even I do, for God's sake! So do you, and any other person on the street. What does that mean?"

"At least you're not _on_ the streets."

"That's not the point," he cried. "The point is that I'm being mistreated and I'm going to _complain_ to better my situation. This is why we have unions. This is why we can go on strikes and _fight_ for our rights. Which, at this moment in time, is virtually _non_existent." He had worked himself up quite well. Shiraishi was very much impressed.

"Either way, he still controls your contract. If there's no contract, there's no job, no bank account, no food, no roof over your head," Shiraishi sighed. "Perhaps this is no royalty treatment, but I'd warrant that an empty stomach is rather horrible, too."

Kirihara, unable to sustain his argument, returned his attention to brooding. Shiraishi went to get coffee.

* * *

Atobe was angry. He returned to his private trailer on the lot and proceeded to pour himself a drink. A visit to the exec office had informed him of Yukimura's latest hospitalization, which meant that Sanada would be at his side. Which meant a junior producer would be taking over for today, and today, Atobe did want to deal with Yanagi. It was annoying to deal with Yanagi for several reasons, but Atobe was too upset at the moment to direct that anger at someone who was not Yukimura.

Yukimura would have listened to Atobe's woes, offered him tea and baked cookies, and then he would have told him very gently that he would do all he could to help him. And then he would toss out Atobe's request out the window and that would be the end of the matter; Atobe would appeal and the same process would start all over again; but there was that _hope_ every time he went to his office. Yukimura was notorious for his treatment of all the big stars under his payroll, and he knew very well how to deal with that self-centered prima donna called Atobe Keigo.

But Sanada did not. Sanada listened to half of his concerns before cutting him off and sending him back out without even a cup of tea; once, he had even threatened him with suspension—_suspension_?—to _Atobe?_—which was, of course, inconceivable. Sanada was utterly unflappable and unbending to his stars' needs; he was even sometimes unintentionally cruel because he did not want to go over the budget or film past the deadlines.

He was strict in trying to achieve his goals, and he was not about to white-glove everything simply for people like Atobe who had already been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

So it was inevitable that Sanada be at once feared and revered, but it did not help his popularity. Yukimura, on the other hand, had been diagnosed with a rare disease, and rumor had it that he would not live past his fortieth birthday. No one knew how old he was.

Atobe did not want to imagine life after Yukimura. It was a given that Sanada would succeed him, and although Sanada was almost a better leader—he was ruthless when it came to business: there was no such thing as a compromise—, a better producer, Yukimura was simply more likable. That was the difference, and that was why Yukimura was pitied and why people empathized with him and went to his pictures: because they knew that he was going to pass on soon and then the Era of Sanada would sweep in and movies would begin to carry a military feeling to them. Yukimura specialized in frothy romantic comedies and all-star musicals (Let's Dance Until the Music Ends!); Sanada strayed towards the boiling crime melodramas and the theme of deep human suffering (O, How They Were All Forsaken).

The anger was beginning to reside. It was an anger that Atobe was used to. It had caused severe enough problems for him when he was just starting out, but he was beginning to accept the fact that it would always be with him and he learning how to live with it. The psychiatrists and medication were superficial attempts at remedying the problem. Still, it was to the point where only certain issues could bring out the anger when he would have to be restrained and forced into the infirmary where a senile nurse offered him water and a colorful tray of medicine.

This, too, Atobe had gotten used to. So it became part of his routine, and he did not find it out of the ordinary that he was going to the infirmary at least twice a week, or that the colorful tray was piling higher and higher each time he went . . .

He decided that he needed to get Tachibana on the phone with Sanada soon, and he decided that he wanted Tachibana to bargain with Sanada on his contract. Of all the things in the world, what the actor values most is his contract.

The contract binds him to an employer, and the contract dictates his every action. One clause, for example, in his contract said that Atobe could only be photographed from his right side because that was his better side. Another said that he received ten percent of all profits from his projects. But Atobe was beginning to feel that Sanada was beginning to overstep his boundary of power.

Take the Shishido Ryou issue. That was enough of an example to make Atobe bare his teeth and grumble and lash out at unfortunate victims, such his long-suffering, but well-paid butler. He secretly dreaded the eventual meeting with Shishido, but he already knew how he was going to act when that day came.

He was going to act as if nothing had ever happened between them. He was going to act as if they were only days removed from being juniors in the entertainment agency where they had been part of a short-lived band. He was going to be flippant, and he was going to be the superior.

He _was_ superior. That was the truth! Atobe Keigo was superior to everyone on this lot, and he was superior to everyone on the adjacent lots, and this included Shishido Ryou. This included Sanada. Hell, this even included the Son of God himself, Yukimura. He responded to no one's demands but his own, and people gave him what he wanted whenever he wanted it _because_ he wanted it.

He resolved to have Tachibana on the phone with Sanada as soon as possible, and then Atobe felt a little better. He noticed that his drink was gone and he poured another.

I've got to pull myself together, he thought, looking out his trailer window towards sound stage 21.

* * *

On Saturday, Tezuka Kunimitsu was feeling a bit fed up. It was not often that he allowed himself to become heavily emotional over work (professionalism first; don't let a sob story choke you up, especially since all the stories are sob stories: either that, or break-up stories or make-up sex stories. The same goes for these, too. Tezuka possessed a very high-standard of professionalism).

His top reporter was late for work this morning, and it made Tezuka feel as though his authority was being undermined. It was very disrespectful.

Inui Sadaharu was never late. He did occasionally arrive five minutes past the first bell, but whenever he did—and those times were not often—he always had a good reason why, which usually included a dramatic display of pathos and histrionics that Inui saved just for the occasion. It made Tezuka wonder why he didn't audition for the daytime serial dramas.

But he was ten minutes late today, and this was very noticeable in the workplace. Two people had already commented on his lateness, and more were sure to question his absence. What if someone, at this instant, needed a quick calculation of the possibility of a meteor shower hitting the Earth next Tuesday afternoon? What? Inui was not here to answer that?

This was, Tezuka thought, inexcusable.

The other important point of notice was that Inui had an article that was due today—yes, ten minutes ago!—and this very article was to be the cover story for the leading tabloid publication in all of Kanto, Spy Magazine. There was a deadline, and Inui was going to _miss_ it. It made Tezuka feel very mad and he wished he had a stress ball to release all of his unspoken anger.

This article which had so incurred his wrath (though no one noticed it, everyone actually thought that Tezuka was looking rather cheery today) was about Atobe Keigo, who was by far the most bankable star in the entertainment world. For reasons Tezuka would never quite understand, people loved Atobe; they listened to his every word, they bought the products he advertised. Had he suddenly decided to endorse purple elephants or frilly pink negligees (and he was soon to do so), people would be lining up all around the corner to buy them.

This article had come by as a request from Yukimura himself. Their industries worked side-by-side often enough, and through the years, Tezuka had struck up his own brand of friendship with the frail executive; occasionally, they went out for tea together and studied nature in quiet contemplation. Or else they met for power lunches and debated on how to squeeze out every last penny from their consumers. It was a very close relationship.

The movie and entertainment industry, with its overly scrutinized idols and actors, often needed an outlet for information, the official source of all of their misdoings or misdeeds or, when it happened, good deeds. These happenings were reported through the magazines that Yukimura was well-acquainted with, and just like that, millions of teenage girls (and occasionally, boys) were informed up-to-the-minute about their favorite idols and actors.

By establishing a solid friendship with Spy Magazine's Tezuka, Yukimura had a constant mouthpiece to the public. When he needed something to be told to the people, he went to Tezuka. When reports about his top players leaked out to the public, he went to Tezuka. And this brought magazine subscriptions and endorsements to Tezuka; it was a very profitable relationship for both parties.

Yukimura also used these magazines for another purpose: as a precursor to future projects, or giving audiences previews of what to expect in the upcoming months. On this occasion, the topic was homosexuality, which would no doubt turn up from the critics during _Romeo and Julio_'s theatrical release. Would audiences be receptive? would they be comfortable? would they accept it?

The answers to all of these questions were, of course, yes. The targeted audience, after all, was the healthy adolescent teenage girl, and in Japan, there was never a shortage of them. The article was simply another ruse for the endorsements and the money. Yukimura knew how to exhort the money very well.

This article, titled very intimately, "I'm Totally Comfortable," addressed the personal views of Atobe on homosexuality. Here are some of his quotes:

When asked on his personal belief: "Of course, I'm comfortable with it. I'm totally comfortable with the idea because there should be no limit to love and everyone has a right to it because love does not just happen to one person and love does not just happen one way. Free love, isn't it? I support homosexuals just as much as I support heterosexuals and transsexuals and metrosexuals and really, there's no end to it. I could go on and on, and I will . . ." [see next page, _Atobe_]

When asked if he were homosexual: "I look at it this way. I know that I'm stunning, and I know that other people know it. If they truly believe that my beauty is the greatest in the world, who am I to deny them?"

When asked if he were ever accused of being homosexual: "Someone as handsome as me is _bound_ to have received offers from members of the both sex. Do I discriminate? Never. [_laughs_] But take this: a girl expresses interest in me, and her male friend, fearing to lose his grip on her, says, 'Yeah, but I hear he's gay.' Well, what that fellow doesn't realize is that he's just helped me right then. By saying so, he is professing doubt on his relationship with his girl, and he is interesting her even further. She'll want to know if there's anything different about being with a gay man, and she zeros in on my bed. So that male friend has just created the exact situation that he had hoped to avoid. I can't say that that's disagreeable with me." [_smiles and smooths hair_]

But none of these wonderfully lewd and soul-baring quotes (ghostwritten by the combined efforts of Inui and Tezuka and Kaidoh Kaoru) were going to make it into the magazine on time if Inui never arrived with the final copy in hand! Had he been a more expressive person, Tezuka might have banged his fist on the table. He merely decided that Inui must have dropped his guard sometime between yesterday and today.

"Sir?" came a call from his secretary. "Inui just arrived. He was stuck in traffic, he says. There was accident on Takashita Street when someone got ran over because his cat jumped out onto the road. Apparently, he knew this person, and he rushed him over to the hospital where he had to give him a blood transfusion to prevent him from dying. They have the same type of blood, you know. Type O, if you're interested."

"Thank you," he said.

Yes, he thought, when Inui arrived in his office thirteen minutes after the workday began, he was going to give him a _piece_ of his mind.


End file.
